PICKLES

by Luca Pierre

I found out today how much she likes pickles. Me too. Don't get me wrong, I'm not so hung up on that. I know that don't really make a difference. Not really. It's just nice to know we might like some of the same things. That seems like it's right, that's all. Four days ago I saw her outside and said I liked her boots. She said what boots and I told her the ones she wore to the comics store and she said oh. It's not like we don't know each other. We were in like every class together at school, we just never talked then, not like now. But then she asked how my Mama was and I didn't even know she knew anything about her. She told me her boyfriends mother was sick and then we were talking about him a little. And I was feeling a little funny about it all. Not then so much--I mean I didn't feel anything like that then. But after, riding home on the bus I was feeling a little sad or like stupid even because I felt a little like I was talking too much. You ever have that feeling where you listen back to yourself and you hear yourself and I just hate that because sometimes I don't know why I say the stuff that I do and...or maybe I'm like one of those people that people just like enough to let them be around even when being around them makes you not want to be around them anymore but you forget that for all the time you're not around them and only remember when you make the mistake of letting them be around you again. I can hear my stupid voice now like asking asking asking her too much stuff--too many questions and I feel like if she's not happy about her boyfriend that maybe I should just let her be that and not make her talk about it all the time. Why make her talk about what's making her not happy? Maybe talk about comics or other stuff she likes. I didn't even care they gave me shit in the parking lot or that the cars busted and I have to take the bus. That was four days ago and I saw her again and she didn't say anything. I said hi and I think she just said hi because I did.